Martin Limon: The Iron Sickle

I pushed my way through them all the way to the back and hunted amidst the bones for the chips of imprinted metal I knew I’d find: dog tags, with their names, ranks, blood types, and religions on them. I stuffed the clinking tin into my pocket.

Someone, somewhere, would like to know. And then I left.

Ernie and Mr. Kill backed away as the.45 clattered to the ground.

I looked up. Satisfied, the two faces disappeared.

When I reached the ledge, there were no hands to help haul me to safety. I reached out as far as I could on the flat stone surface. Pushing up with my legs, I leaned forward, hoping my weight would tilt me to safety, and then I slithered onto solid stone. I hugged the flat surface, feeling the firm body of the ginseng plant pressing against my chest. I wriggled forward until I was sure I wouldn’t fall. Then and only then did I look around me. At the far end of the long stone rectangle squatted the man with the iron sickle. Behind him sat Madame Hoh and Miss Sim. Behind them, bound, gagged, and bug-eyed, lay Mr. Covert P. Walton.

“Let him go,” I said. “You can keep me instead.”

The man with the iron sickle shook his head. Madame Hoh lit another cigarette.

“You’ll never get out of here alive,” I said. “What’s the point?”

“The point is,” Madame Hoh said, “the world must know what happened on Daeam Mountain.”

“They’ll know now,” I said, motioning toward the growing crowd of demonstrators below us.

“Pak Chung-hee won’t let it appear in the Chosun Il-bo .”

“He can’t stop it from appearing in American newspapers. Stringers from AP and UPI are already down there interviewing people.”

“ AP ?”

I explained about international wire services. When I was finished, Madame Hoh said, “How do you know they’ll write about it?”

“Because of him.” I pointed at Mr. Walton. “They’ll interview him, and he’ll talk about it, and then they’ll interview me, and I’ll tell them everything I’ve seen.”

“Your army will let you do that?”

They wouldn’t but I lied. “Yes. I’m an American. Our rules are different.”

The man with the iron sickle, apparently, understood enough of what we were saying to be skeptical. He shook his head and said, “ An dei .” No good.

“You’ve accomplished what you need to accomplish,” I said. “The story of the Lost Echo will be in every newspaper in the world before the day is out. Let her go, at least.”

I pointed to Miss Sim. She snuggled closer to Madame Hoh. “Here,” I said. “I have something for you.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the leather pouch. I placed it on the flat stone surface and slid it across to Madame Hoh. She picked it up, unlaced the bag, and the stem of the plant popped out. Reverently, she lifted the insam plant out of the pouch. Holding it with both hands, she showed it to the man with the iron sickle. He eyed it suspiciously. Then she turned back to me. “Where did you get this?”

“After you left, I escaped from the cavern and wandered down the mountain. I fell asleep and when I woke up, this plant was there at my feet. At first, I didn’t know what it was but Hunter Huk helped me harvest it.”

“You met Hunter Huk?”

“Without him, I’d still be in the mountains.”

“And you want her to have it?” She motioned toward Miss Sim.

“Yes. It will help pay for the treatment she needs. Captain Prevault, an American psychiatrist, has already arranged for her to be treated by Doctor Hwang Sun-won, one of the most famous doctors in Korea.” I didn’t know if this was true but it could be. “She needs to get out of here alive,” I continued. “And so does he.” I pointed at the terrified Mr. Walton. “They are innocent.”

Madame Hoh flicked her fingers at me, ordering me to back up. I did, crawling. She kept flicking her fingers until I was on the far side of the top of Guanghua-mun. She leaned toward the man with the iron sickle and whispered urgently. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, glaring alternately at me and then at the ginseng Miss Sim held reverently cradled in her arms.

They conversed, arguing, until finally it appeared they’d come to a decision. Madame Hoh motioned for me to return. I did, sliding on my butt as fast as I could. She opened her mouth and started to say something when her head exploded.

I leapt forward. Another sniper round zinged through the air, probably from one of the high rise buildings two or three city blocks away. It was a masterful shot but now Miss Sim was screaming, and Mr. Walton was bucking his body up and down like a terrified fish. The man with the iron sickle turned toward the rope ladder and started to hack at it.

I leapt at him. But I was too slow. When I shoved off with my lame feet they didn’t propel me forward with as much strength as I expected. He twisted back and raised his sickle. The blade caught my shoulder and dug deep through flesh into the bone. I surged forward, not yet feeling the pain. He tried to pull the sickle back but it was stuck now in the cartilage of my shoulder. I landed on top of him, and we slid closer to the edge. I jammed my forearm into his throat, and he leaned away from me and suddenly I was staring down into space and the screaming crowd some three stories below. He kneed me in the groin. I scrabbled back, grabbing at the wooden handle of the sickle, both of us pulling on it, the sharp blade burrowing deeper into my flesh. Finally it popped free and blood gushed out. The two of us had our hands on the sickle, rolling away from the edge but then tumbling together toward the opposite side. I planted my left foot on the smooth surface and his weight rolled over on it. The pain that jolted up from my foot almost blinded me, but we didn’t roll off the ledge. He’d managed to wrench the sickle from me now, and he raised the gleaming blade into the air, and then a white apparition appeared at his arm. Miss Sim. She grabbed his forearm just in time to deflect his swing, and I leaned to my right and the blade clanged onto hard stone. He turned back and stared at her in astonishment.

“No,” she said. “He’s good. He gave me this.” She was crying and clutching the insam against her chest.

He twisted his head and another shot rang out. This one caught him flush in the neck. He stared open-mouthed at Miss Sim for a split second, and then his eyes darted to me. He appeared confused. A crimson bubble of blood bulged out of the hole in his neck, spurted violently and then dwindled to a stream. I shoved him away and now he didn’t resist. His body tumbled farther than I had intended. Still clutching the iron sickle, he tilted over the stone edge of the Gate of the Transformation of Light and, his eyes locked on mine, plunged backward into space.

The crowd below screamed. I grabbed onto the hysterical Miss Sim and, holding her tightly, crawled toward Mr. Walton. I held one of the ropes that bound him and told him to breathe deeply.

“You’re safe now,” I told him and repeated the same thing to Miss Sim in Korean.

A month later, Ernie and I were back on the black market detail. At night we prowled the ville. I was healing up nicely. The stitches had been taken out and the memory of how cold I’d been in the Taebaek Mountains, and how much pain the bottle of Little Devil hot sauce had caused me, was mercifully beginning to fade.

Mrs. Hoh’s claim had never been published in the Chosun Ilbo . The government hadn’t allowed it. A few stories had been published by the international news services about the killing atop Guanghua-mun and the protests but they only got part of the story, not nearly the full extent of it. An officer from 8th Army JAG, accompanied by Colonel Brace, had appeared beside my hospital bed the day after the incident, informing me that the claim was classified and I was being ordered not to reveal any information about it under threat of court-martial. He slipped a statement under my nose saying I’d been duly informed and told me to sign it. I refused. Both officers left in a huff. Still, I knew better than to reveal classified information. Years in the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, was not something I ever wanted to experience.